


Internecine

by ashflower



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Post-Game(s), Psychological, Romance, Spoilers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashflower/pseuds/ashflower
Summary: Years after the war ends, Dimitri finds himself fighting another battle: the one with his heart.[Dimitri/Reader]





	1. Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

> It might be OOC. I haven’t finished the game yet; I’m actually still quite early into the game, but, good grief do I love this boy.

* * *

_I will forgive the years lost amidst desperate, bloody battles  
as long as you can remain by my side,  
and not become a memory of that summer day._

**I. **

* * *

His steps are quick but light, carrying the weight of his anger in silence. You do your best to follow after him despite the fact that everyone else is trying to avoid him. The servants who happen to be on his path are evidence of that as they immediately make way for him even amidst the wide hallway.

“My King,” you call out, hand stretching towards him, but your fingers land on nothing. 

You huff and proceed to hasten your steps. Your only saving grace is when he finally reaches his destination where the door to his room slams wide open. Compared to Dimitri, you are much more level-headed and calm. You catch it before it hits the spring and close the door with a soft click.

“My King—“

“How dare they!” he roars, and you flinch at the volume of his voice. 

You watch as he paces around the room for a few moments, fury radiating from his body. Then, he tugs at the binds resting across his neck, the ones that keep his cape attached to his body. It falls open with one harsh pull, and he throws the article haphazardly onto the floor. His cuffs are the next to be taken off. You keep an eye trained onto where they land—thankfully, both onto the cape. Buttons of his top are tugged open and—

“My King,” your voice is louder now, matching your equally as steady steps. He stops in the middle of his tantrum and finally slumps into a seat by his window with his head in his hands. “Please, do not be so angry.”

“How can I not be?” he retorts, although his voice is softer now—still angry, but reasonable when speaking with you. “Who gave them the nerve to suggest such a thing? Did they not pause to consider how insulted you would be?! After all that you had done not only for myself, but also for Faerghus; all of the sacrifices that you made—“

You smile and raise a hand to his face where your fingers smooth out the lines between his eyebrows and finally rest upon his cheek. His shoulders slump, and just like that, he calms.

“I am not insulted,” you state.

Of course you would not be, he thinks. You are too magnanimous; too benevolent. You are not the type to hold any grudges even when the other party has done you wrong. Even back at the monastery, you had let people step all over you and seldom stood up for yourself. 

What was worse was that more than half of the time, you happily stated that you truly were not bothered; you had the patience of a saint.

“You may not be insulted, but I am.” For you, he will be angry. For you, he will be insulted. For you, he will fight. “They dared to bring up the topic in front of you… Even when they know that you are the only person that I wish to marry.”

Your fingers curl around his cheek, and you watch as he leans into your touch, like a pampered little boy. It makes the smile on your face bloom even wider, and you lower yourself to the ground before him, kneeling. With your hand still on his skin, you rest your head atop one of his knees where his fingers begin to weave through your hair. 

“I know, my King,” you mutter. “However, it is already enough that you keep me within your heart.”

You do not ask for a ring nor even a title. Just being like this… You are already happy.

His voice lowers, nary but a whisper in the large room, “Am I not allowed to even announce to the world that you are the only one that I love and want to be with?”

Sadly, you think that he is not allowed. He is a King now, no longer just a Prince. Then again, Dimitri had never been _just_ a prince—he had always been the crown’s heir. 

As for yourself… 

A knock, suddenly, against the door.

“Your Majesty.” 

You recognize the voice as belonging to Byleth, and make a move to rise. Dimitri follows you with his gaze — one that tells you to stay — and you give him a smile. You come to your full height and stand beside him, and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Satisfied with your actions, he tells Byleth, “Come in.”

Your teacher is cool when he enters, his gaze immediately locating where Dimitri resides. His expression is completely neutral and you find it hard to discern how he is truly feeling. After all, Dimitri had stormed out of the meeting room as soon as he could. He did not show any face to the other councillors in the room.

“Have you calmed?” Byleth asks. 

If he had followed immediately after, then perhaps not. But now…

“Yes,” Dimitri says.

Here, Byleth nods his head approvingly. Though that approval is short lived as a frown tugs at his lips. ”You should not get so angry with the council, your Majesty. Their concerns were not without reasoning.”

Dimitri knows, but, when flashbacks of the conversation comes back to mind, his fingers curl around the the edge of the arm rest. 

Without even asking him what his opinion was, they had already started to bring up profiles of daughters worthy of candidacy of betrothal to the King of Faerghus. Their blatant disregard of you had made him furious, and although he had tried to remain calm — mainly at the behest of your whispers some feet away from him — he found it difficult to do so the longer the conversation carried on. 

In the end, he had risen to his feet and slammed his hands on top of the table, and silenced them with a furious command.

“The matter of my marriage is still something that I do not wish to discuss, even if it is with you, my teacher,” he says, although it is through a tense jaw. “My stance shall not change.”

It is a sensitive subject, one that Byleth understands very well, having witnessed your interactions with the ruling King since he had arrived at the academy. However, when the king cannot be impartial, it is up to the advisor to remind him to be so. 

In all other aspects, Dimitri has done well. But for this matter…

“Your Majesty,” Byleth says, “If you do not wish to marry, then I will persuade the council to stay their hand. However, you must know that it is not without valid concerns. You have accomplished much for the Kingdom already, but an heir will be most beneficial to the Kingdom should anything happen to you. Even if we can avoid it today, it will be brought up again in the future.”

“Then I shall fight them every step of every way.”

Behind him, you are unable to resist the little snort that leaves your lips. Without skipping a beat, Dimitri had responded so reassuredly and proudly. He can be quite stubborn, when he wants to be.

Yet you seem to be the only one amused because Byleth sighs defeatedly. He hesitates for a moment before he straightens his back and stands taller.

“You must know: love has nothing to do with it.”

“I understand very well.”

However, understanding and agreeing is not mutually exclusive. 

“Your Majesty,” Byleth starts, knowing that it is no use to carry on the subject. Regardless of the circumstances, he had already pledged his loyalty long ago. Unless his behaviour went too out of hand, then he will only support the King. “Will you take your meal here?”

He knows he has put his teacher into a difficult position, but Dimitri cannot relent. Not when it comes to you.

The topic ends, just like that, as Dimitri hums an affirmative and Byleth nods his head. 

“I will have the maids bring your meal to your room then,” he says, “Although you still have documents that you should look over, do mind your health, _Dimitri_. Try not to overdo it. Rest early if you can as tomorrow will be another long day.”

“You as well, _Byleth_.”

Although he detests the subject, he knows that his anger is not to be misplaced. It had been a hard lesson to learn in the beginning. He knows that the lack of formalities used is to voice concern and not out of disrespect. How can he ignore all that his teacher had done for him, especially when his teacher is only looking out for him? 

Just before he leaves, Byleth pauses. His gaze lands to where you stand, although his expression is once again difficult for you to discern. It seems all-knowing and patronizing, but not at all hateful. Despite this, you feel nervous under his gaze, and you look away. 

When he is finally gone, Dimitri lets out a long-winded sigh. He tilts his head back into the back of the cushions of the chair and brings his hand up to grasp over yours where his thumb runs over your knuckles.

Your gaze shifts towards the windows. It is already late afternoon, almost evening; the sun is already starting to set. The meeting went long today. Dimitri had an early morning, too. He must be tired. 

Even if he cannot sleep well, the body still knows exhaustion.

“My King,” you start, after a few moments. He’s breathing in and out softly, seemingly on the precipice of sleep, but you know better. “There are still important documents that you must read over.”

If everything goes well, then he can read over the necessary documents, have his meal, and then call it an early night. If he were to ignore his duties now, it would only pile up tomorrow, and he would be forced to stay up late…

“Mmm,” he hums. It’s rare to see him act so indulgently, to ignore his duties like this… 

You wish that he could be at peace, always. If he can have a few moments of respite throughout the day, for the rest of his life, then that is all you ask for. 

You stay silent, offering this peace for him.

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

Your eyes widen even though it is only a fragment. 

Then, an arm snakes around his neck, and your knees touch the floor once more. It is an awkward position with the arm rest as a barrier between your two bodies, but you still try to embrace him as well as you can. Your head finds purchase on his shoulder and you inhale softly. Even despite everything, Dimitri still smells like the summer day when you had first met him, on the cusp of autumn. 

You can remember that visage vividly, where he had stood amongst the foliage that surrounded Garreg Mach Monastery, in his formal garb, amongst other nobility of Faerghus. That day, he had turned around and by chance, caught your gaze. His eyes widened in response and even though you knew that you should have looked away, you could not resist losing yourself in his gem-coloured eyes. 

It was a startling encounter. 

And idly, in the back of your mind, you wonder if, to him, you still retain the essence of that carefree day…

“Always, my King.” You feel cold, all of a sudden, and your arms wrap tighter around his warm being. “As long as you shall wish it so, I will remain by your side.”


	2. Lullaby

* * *

_One hand tightly holds onto the sins of yesterday;  
the other reaches towards future’s peace.  
I cannot find your touch anymore, but my heart: I will carve out for you._

**II. **

* * *

In the darkness are murmurs, barely audible, but incessant and rambling. Their voices trample over each other in a bid to catch attention. Some are pleas, while others are scoldings. 

All of them are selfish.

Yet for the most part, you have learnt to ignore their annoying buzzing. It cannot be helped that they still linger around. Over the years, their voices have become his lullaby. It would be stranger for him to sleep without any background noise. 

However, even you have your limits. When their voices raise a fraction, you frown. When their words become too cruel and vicious, and Dimitri stirs in his sleep, you banish them.

The room stills. Their voices hush. Their crowding and attempts to step out of the shadow disappear. 

You will not forgive any disturbances to his sleep. 

To your relief, Dimitri continues to slumber.

In his sleep, he looks like such a charming young man. His hair has fallen over his face. It is not as short as he had it during his boyhood, and even the years during the war had been considered long. But now, it is even longer, and your fingers ghost over the soft strands. 

The scar over his right eye is dark and nasty looking, but when your touch moves over his skin, you find that it still radiates warmth.

Despite everything, in his sleep, he looks almost peaceful—vulnerable, even.

But you know better. 

Beneath his sleeping visage are monsters that taunt his dreams. When they are not following him, they can be found in the deep recesses of his subconscious trying to pull him into the darkness just as they are trapped. 

You watch as he shifts in his sleep, and as his eyebrows furrow. He begins to huff rapidly as if he cannot catch his breath, as if he is running away from something. Your heart trembles, and you bring a hand over his, and just like that, his breathing begins to even out. The creases on his face smooth. 

He’s calm. He’s at peace. Just momentarily.

When he awakens, you know that the hardships of life will overtake any peace he might have grasped. No longer will he face the monsters of his subconscious, but the ones that are still alive and breathing. 

Life is cruel, but, you will do anything to protect him. This will always remain true.

Some hours later, the sun finally rises. You hope that he can rest for a bit longer, but, that hope vanishes the moment his eyes open. As if on instinct, they land on you firstly, and the line of his lips curl into a boyish smile—one reminiscent to the sweet, shy smiles he would often send your way back at the academy, before war had hardened that shyness into boldness.

The smile extends all the way to his eyes, honeyed and reverent. 

“Good morning,” he whispers softly. 

You smile back. “Good morning.”

You move a hand to brush away the fallen strands over his eyes, but he catches your hand with his own, and presses a sweet kiss over your knuckles. He turns it over, presses another kiss to the palm of your hand, then drifts it over his chest where it beats, beats, beats. Steadily, calmly, happily.

“How was your sleep?” you ask, hoping to relieve him of the worries that occupy his subconscious. 

“…I had a dream about you.”

“Oh?”

“We were together, in the forest around the school,” he says, and you fight to maintain the smile on your lips. “I feared that I had lost you, but… I found you, eventually, in that same spot where we first met.”

“Is that so?”

He nods, proudly. “Do you want to know something else?”

“Mmm.”

“We had children, in my dream,” he says. It makes you blush, but you think that it sounds like a pleasant dream.

“What did we have?”

His eyes twinkle. He says one of each—a boy first, then a girl, and then… brings a hand to your stomach, “Another one, on the way.”

Your eyes widen as you are suddenly turned over. Dimitri grins wickedly as he hovers above you, brings one hand over your head to keep it in place while the other reaches for your cheek. His fingertips ghost over your skin before the palm of his hand lays flat against your being and then—starts to trail down, down your jaw, your neck, your shoulder and rests in between the middle of your chest. 

His lips descend. His gaze remains locked with yours, and your own eyes start to flutter as he closes the proximity and then—air.

A knock resounds on the door. You can hear the low curse, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. It makes you want to laugh, but you do not dare because Dimitri does not move from his position. He stays hovering above you. The emotion in his eyes is hard for you to discern, and when the seconds continue to pass, you turn to him.

“My King…”

Another knock.

The annoyance is visible on his face now, by the way his gaze narrows. It’s quite amusing seeing him frustrated like so, but you know it is no way to start the day. You lean up and press a ghost of a kiss to his lips. Before he can fully enjoy it, you are already slipping out from underneath him.

His keeps his eyes trained as you stand by the end of the bed, and you start to move towards the window where sunlight peeks through the curtains. 

“Come on,” you throw over your shoulder. “It’s such a beautiful day. How can you bear to waste it in bed?”

He shakes, and finally moves to get out of bed. 

“You may enter,” he tells the person at the door, though his back is turned to them, and he is suddenly beside you as you stare out the window. 

Neither you nor Dimitri pay the servants much mind as they help him to prepare for the day. They move swiftly and silently; firstly preparing the bath for him but — as they had been told not to since before he had even been crowned — they do not attend. His breakfast is still hot when they reveal it to him, and he has it while the bath is being prepared in the connected room.

You do not partake in his morning meal. Instead, you wander to where the bath is and sit on the edge of the marble tub. Steam rises into the air but when your fingers dip into the water, it is freezing to your touch.

You pull your hand back.

A short while later, Dimitri finally enters the bath. You give him his privacy and wander around his room, watching as the maids clear up his morning meal and begin to set out his clothing for the day.

When he finally returns, his hair is still wet against his shoulders. You wish that you could assist in drying his hair, but you cannot. You can only remain where you are, some feet away, watching silently as the maid servants tend to their tasks swiftly and efficiently.

They gather his hair at the nape of his neck, and tie it into a low ponytail, making him look presentable as King. It is hard to admit, but he looks quite dashing when he is formally dressed. It is not often that he does so, typically in more rugged-looking clothes. Even though he has not had to fight a battle in quite some time, he has still gotten used to wearing battle-appropriate clothing. There’s rarely a day when he is not dressed to do so. 

Nevertheless, you feel a pang of envy as the servants are freely able to touch his hair. Your thoughts stray from innocent ones as you begin to wonder how upset he would be if you were to run your own hands through his hair and ruin the image of perfection…

You give a start, when you meet his gaze. His looks all-too-smug, and you suspect that he knows where your thoughts have wandered off to. 

You huff, and turn the other cheek.

A thought seems to come to mind, and he suddenly asks, “When was the last time that I’ve had my haircut?” 

His question is surprising. You’d once asked him why he didn’t cut it short anymore, but he had replied that it was easier to keep it longer. When he had been destitute, he did not have the luxury to worry about aesthetics. It has been something that stayed with him ever since.

Currently, it is only a bit longer than when he had grown it out during his vagabond days, reaching a few inches past his shoulder now.

“Why?” you frown. “I quite like it this way.”

“It has been just over half a year, your Highness,” one of the maids answers. 

Your frown deepens. Has it already been that long? 

“Perhaps a trim is in order?” the maid asks.

“It is not easy for a man to pull off longer hair. Furthermore, it is still so healthy and luscious… Do you really have to cut it?” It would be such a shame, your think. Absently, you touch your own hair. Yours have not grown out in such a long time, and you resent the fact.

“Are you envious?” You can hear the mirth in his voice. “Am I really that dashingly handsome?”

The maid servant looks up, startled. She glances at another one of the maids whose gaze tells her to play along and then—

“Y-yes, your Highness. You are always handsome,” she stutters.

Dimitri frowns. _You_ keep your lips firm, and continue to look away from him, pretending that you have not heard.

The fingers of the maids hasten their work, buttoning his outfit as quickly as they can.

“Perhaps I should just cut it off, after all,” he says. 

The maids stay silent. 

You finally look back at him. Although you would be regretful for him to lose such length, it is not your decision to make. “You would be handsome either way, my King. Although…” You are unable to help it; he really does look exquisite. “I think it takes a certain sort of aura to be able to pull off the length that you have now.”

His lips curl.

“If that is what you wish, your Highness,” one of the maids finally responds. “We shall notify the barber of your decision.”

“You really wouldn’t, would you?” you pout. 

“I can be swayed to reconsider,” he says.

The maids glance around again and then—

“Your Highness—“ they start, but Dimitri has had enough.

“I am not speaking to you.” He glares down at them and they promptly step back, kneeling even. The absolute annoyance on his face makes you grin and he dismisses them without punishment. 

When they are gone, you finally take place before him, running your hands over his outfit to smooth out any wrinkles and creases. There are none. The servants always do a perfect job, even when you wish you could do something—_anything_—for him.

You raise your hand to touch his hairline, and then finally meet his gaze. “Will you please reconsider? At least for the time-being…”

“Hm.” He leans towards you, lips brushing over yours—“And if I do?”

You smile brilliantly up at him. “Then you shall remain the most handsome man in the kingdom for a day longer, my King.”

He finally laughs, releasing all annoyance he may have had. You are thankful to appease his contempt. It has already been twice this morning that his mood had turned sour, and though he is typically even-tempered nowadays, you have not forgotten how disastrous the previous day had been.

Your fingers play with the buttons on his outfit, though you are mindful to not ruin them. “I shall not attend council with you, today.”

“Are you upset with how they behaved yesterday?”

You shake your head. “Not upset,” never was. “Today is just so beautiful, and I do not want to spend it indoors.”

He peers out the window with his one eye, and nods his head. Yes, it is rare for Faerghus to have such warm weather in this season. Although he prefers cooler days himself, he knows that you were raised under the sun.

“After I finish my schedule,” he starts, “I will take a walk with you in the garden. Would you like that?”

The suggestion makes you beam, and you nod your head eagerly. “I would, very much.”

“Then,” he says, as he searches for your hand, and brings it to his lips, “I shall miss you for every second that we are apart, my love.”

He does not need to say; you already know.

His yearning for you had started since your adolescence, and has only grown since then. Even more so as of recently…


	3. Heretic

* * *

_At the time, you asked, “Why me, of all people?”_  
_You thanked the Gods for my response, and smiled so joyously that even the Angels cried in celebration.  
Years later, you asked the same question once again,  
and the Angels cried sorrowfully, this time._

**III. **

* * *

They call him a just King. He is intelligent but benevolent, always putting the needs of his Kingdom first and foremost, and rules flawlessly. It’s no wonder that the citizens adore him so much. During his short reign so far, he has done much for the Kingdom and has stitched back the crumbling foundation between neighbouring countries. 

He will go down in history as one of the more prosperous rulers, surely.

Over the years, the hearsay of his violent days as a vagabond have become just that: hearsay. The news of his former delinquency have been overwritten with his pleasantries as King. After all, what beast can bring this much peace and prosperity to a Kingdom? To think of such an image was near-impossible.

And yet… Even prosperity has its cracks.

“Have you not heard—about the King?” a woman’s voice—soft, but in the empty corridor, is not quiet enough.

“No, I have not heard anything.” Another voice; another woman. Their voices start to become louder now, and their conversation is not as private as assumed.

“They say that the King is strange. They say that he speaks to himself. Typically when he is alone and unsuspecting of others nearby, but there are times even in public that they say he behaves as if there are whispers over his shoulder… I had thought that they were rumours at best to taint the reputation of our King, but this morning, he had even yelled at Maria for replying to him. He said that he was not speaking to her, but clearly, there had only been her and Priscilla in the room with him. If not to either of them, then to whom?”

When they turn the corner, they gasp loudly and promptly fall to their knees. You watch as silverware topples over in the tray that one of them holds, clinking noisily as their hands shake. Droplets of tea spill from a canteen, over the tray—then, falls in splotches onto the floor. 

It is an untrained sight, similar to a newborn puppy having an accident where it should not have. Only, in this case, these two girls are not newborn, and they are not untrained. 

You stand over them, unsympathetic. However, just as your lips part to speak, a voice cuts in from behind you.

“Is this how you should speak of your King?”

You turn. Directly behind you stands Felix, looking furious and disgusted. If the vitriol in his voice were not indication enough of his displeasure, then it is obvious by the way he glares ferociously down at them. 

For a man who has an often-ill relationship with the King, it is surprising to others to see how defensive he is. Then again, you know that for the ones that they care for — for the ones that they love, deep down— even a saint can become a devil.

The case had been the same for Edelgard, Claude, and even Dimitri. You and Felix are no different, either.

Idly, you wonder when did he arrive, for you had not noticed his oncoming presence.

“N-no, milord,” they stutter. “Please forgive us. We were wrong.”

His eyes remain full of disgust. “I will speak to your department head of your inappropriate conduct,” he warns them. “Be prepared to accept the consequences of your actions.”

You watch as the two little maids are forced to concede and then as Felix dismisses them. They scurry off immediately, and only when they are gone does he resume control of his emotions. It takes only a few seconds for him to mask his contempt with a neutral expression. You had never noticed how well-controlled he was, given that he seemed to always have an unpleasant look around Dimitri. Once, you had even thought that he had been born with a permanent scowl.

You tilt your head. “It has been a while, Felix. How have you been?”

He scoffs, disdainfully, seemingly still annoyed, and then carries on, as if your question had been wind to his ears.

You smile wryly, used to his treatment of you. Even back at the academy, neither of you had gotten along very well…

No, actually, you had gotten along, once upon a time, in the early days of your education. But those months had been short-lived, and you have nearly forgotten. You never knew why he came to disdain you so much when you had always had a cordial —almost friendly, even— relationship in the beginning. The lack of closure had stayed with you in the back of your mind, but then again, you suppose that it does not really matter. 

Nevertheless, it is rare for you to see any of your former peers nowadays. You cannot even remember the last time that you had stepped foot outside of the palace walls…

Eventually, Felix arrives the entrance of the meeting room. You have no interest in listening to the complexities of politics today, and so, you part ways with him here.

“It was nice to see you too, Felix,” you mutter. 

You do not look back. There is no need, you see, for it will be no different from any of your other interactions outside of Dimitri: there will be no response.

—

When sunset begins to fall, Dimitri finds you at the north garden. His steps had been frantic at first, as he realized that he did not know where to find you, but slowed upon catching sight of your willow-y figure standing by the pond, watching as the idle fish swim by.

His arms wrap around you, startling at first, and you note once again that your senses are diluted. 

“I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” he says, over your shoulder. “The meeting went longer than expected.”

You shake your head. “I have not waited long at all.” 

In the end, what is time? Is it not just a construct designed to limit one’s perspective? The sun will set, but it will also rise, eternally. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—such things will never cease unless the entire universe were to combust.

You have not waited long, at all, in the grand scheme of things.

“How did your meetings go?”

The arms around you curl tighter around your being. His body tenses from behind you, and you turn your head to see the way his jaw tightens. His lips press into a firm line, and you bring a hand out to smooth the frown.

Your heart hurts, evermore.

“Walk with me,” he says, and you oblige, even as he avoids your question.

His hand feels warm, enveloped around your own. Although the sun is out today and the birds still have not migrated, the garden still feels excruciatingly cold to you. It is a wonder that the fish are still alive, with how freezing it seems.

“I saw Felix earlier.” You bring yourself closer to Dimitri, hugging his arm for more heat. The marigolds look lovely underneath the setting sun, bronze compared to their earlier sunflower hues. _They_ look warm, and glimpses of your childhood come to mind. You can almost feel the summer rays from the Leicester sun on your skin, but it is only a brief caress, fleeting and imported. “He has not changed much at all, has he?”

Silence.

You peer up at Dimitri, and see his far-away look, strangely reticent. Normally he is more open and reciprocative towards you, and yet today… 

“My King?”

“No,” he finally replies, after another moment. “Felix has not changed much.”

You wonder if they had another bout, as it typically seems to be the case whenever the two of them get together. It is likely, you think, given that Felix had already been in a bad mood due to the two maids earlier.

The flowers and trees that are normally so colourful seem somber today. Your walk with Dimitri is similar in that aspect, as he usually tries to keep up a livelier presence around you, but today, he loses himself in thought often, and your conversations end up dying out before they can fully bloom. By the time you make your way back to the palace, the sun is already low in the sky. The formerly erected flowers have started to wilt now, preparing for sleep. 

Even though Dimitri has not spoken much this evening, he has not let go of your hand. This stays true, even when you prepare to lead him back into the palace. He has not eaten yet, and you are sure that he still has documents that he must read over. 

Much to your surprise, Dimitri stops, and you are suddenly tugged back the very second that your steps fall out of unison with his. You peer up at him, confused—but less so with his next few words. 

“Do you think of me as strange?”

…Is this what he is upset about? 

You swallow hard, then answer resolutely, “No, you are not strange to me, my King.” You thought about it earlier—whether Dimitri truly is strange or not. In the end, you concluded that he is not. His feelings are just… deep. As vast as the unclaimed oceans; as infinite as time itself. 

His problem is that… he loves—too deeply. 

<s>Perhaps belatedly.</s>

“…I’m sorry.”

You look up at him, still in wonder. “What for?”

“…That I could not make you happy.”

This… you had not been expecting. 

You shake your head in protest, this time, startled and—frightful. Doesn’t he know? With him… you have never been sad. With him.. 

“My King,” you grab both of his hands with your own, and bring one to your chest, hoping that he can feel what heart you have. “Do I not look happy to you?”

“I wonder…” he trails off, “I admit that sometimes, I cannot tell anymore.”

That feeling of going through the motions… Perhaps he feels it too; the detachment; the attachment… Both at once, here and there…

The entire day, you have felt incomplete and disrupted, as if being held by glue or—bandages. Shattered pieces of pieces flimsily stitched together. It is true that your senses dilute when he is not near you; you cannot focus and you cannot be certain of much. However, one thing that you know for certain is the way that you feel whole by his side. 

The sun shines differently in Faerghus —colder, indifferent, foreign— but you have learnt to embrace the moonlight, with Dimitri by your side.

“My King,” you mutter, as you release his hands to fully embrace him now. “My heart has always lied with you… It was true then, and it is still true now… I am never happier than when I am with you.”

Doesn’t he know? 

You yearn for him just as much as he does you.

You… feel just as deeply, too.

—

Inside of the castle, by a window overlooking the garden, stands Byleth. His eyes narrow, having witnessed his King’s interactions the entire time. He has long since known about Dimitri’s symptoms, but, they have been increasing as of recently. He knows that he should have taken precautions earlier, and yet… Perhaps part of him wished for Dimitri to be able to indulge himself. After all, his student had endured much hardships throughout his life. To allow him a piece of happiness was the least he could do.

Only now does he wonder if he has bypassed the point of indulgence to gluttony. His overconsumption of fantasies has disillusioned him, and it is starting to show.

“_Forget these games that you play with the dead,_” Felix had hissed earlier, after all was said and done with his monthly reports. “They are already gone, and the only one keeping them bound to this world is _you_. It is an _obsession_ that you hold!”

Felix had been cold and cruel with his words, but, not unwarranted. Not after he’d explained that the servants were starting to talk about Dimitri’s behaviour. It had seemingly come from a place of hastily-prompted concern, but Byleth suspected that there was more to it as well. The words were well-rehearsed, as if Felix had been simmering upon them for quite some time now. It was a wake-up call for not only Dimitri, but Byleth as well.

Then he looked away, and Byleth saw the chance grief show upon his face. “You only brought to her destruction and sorrow. When have you ever had the chance to make her happy?” he said, and Byleth could not find it in him to intervene. Not when Felix himself, looked so vulnerable, even if it was only for a split second. “Shouldn’t you at least offer her peace, even in death?”

“She deserved better,” he concluded, his voice so bitter and contemptuous but most of all—regretful. 

He did not wait for a response before he stormed off, leaving only Byleth and Dimitri to remunerate in the aftermath.

Grief is… a disease. It is unwelcome anywhere. It decimates and it maims, capable of breaking even the strongest of men—both physically and mentally. Worst of all, there is no cure. 

For a moment, Byleth catches as Dimitri pauses in the middle of the walkway. He looks to be in an embrace, and though his back is large enough to cover whomever is in his embrace, Byleth knows better: it is a ghost that he holds dear. 

—

That night, Dimitri has a nightmare. He calls your name, over and over again in his sleep, and the murmurs for his attention from those around you fade into silence as they are cast away from his subconscious. You hastily move from your spot by the window, where the moonlight had embraced you, and climb onto his bed beside him.

He calls your name again in a desperate whisper and you see how how hand flexes by its side, as if in attempt to grab you.

You lean down, pressing your head to his chest where his heart beats—erratically, rapidly, then… fades into a steady rhythm with your next words—

“I am here, my King. I am here, with you.”

As long as he calls your name…  
As long as he dreams of you…  
As long as he holds you within his heart…

You cannot go anywhere. 

Such is the law of grief. His heart… has long ago become your graveyard.


	4. Marigold

* * *

_I put my hands together, and I prayed_  
_I only had one wish, at the time—  
“Please, Gods, if you must take a life, then let it be mine—  
For what does my life mean if you are not fine?”_

**IV. **

* * *

“Do you still see them?”

His reaction is quick: an instantaneous denial that softens into reality. “No,” then—“Yes.”

Sometimes.

The technicality of his response is difficult to put into words. No, he does not see them—not much, anymore. Their spirits have disappeared out of sight, but he can still hear them. Although he cannot see them, he can still hear their restless murmurs throughout the night, reminiscent to the low buzzing of the cicadas in the forest that surrounded the academy.

Yes, because even if he may not see them, and even if he does not always hear them, he always feels their presence. 

Sometimes—

_Still_, sometimes, though rare, he can see them vividly—dark shadows in dark corners, lingering. He can hear them vividly—slips of words that still manage to cut and bleed, even if they are whispers from ghosts. 

Out of hundreds of names and faces that he has befriended since childhood; and thousands of unfamiliar ones, there is only the singular that stays constant. This singular presence is yours, and all of the ghosts from his past and presence become light when you are with him.

You are his anchor. You are the only one that keeps him afloat when even his mind cannot be reliable. And yet… Simultaneously, you are his anchor—the one that weighs him down and consumes his thoughts. 

Byleth: “Do you still see _her_?”

“Yes.” An affirmative. 

He does.

Every single day.

In his dreams, and when he is awake, he sees you all the time. 

—

You had originally been a happy, carefree girl from the south-eastern plains of Leicester. Your family had not been noble for generations and generations; you only procured nobility some time during your grandfather’s prime. However, such a thing was sure to be fleeting and forgotten after his death. Neither you nor your father had interest in politics, but even if you did have any, your talents were not meant for that area. 

Thus, your grandfather had his eyes set on your older brother. He was eight years older than yourself, and could be considered an all-around stable guy. He was intelligent and had a habit of obtaining things that he did not work hard for, but in the end, even your grandfather had to accept disappointment. That was because your brother only cared for one thing in his life, and that was the value of money.

“_Aristocracy?_” he scoffed. “_Is a title going to put food in my stomach, clothes on my back, a roof over my head? If not, then I don’t want any of it._”

He almost had his name written out of the family genealogy books that day.

Your grandfather’s attention then shifted onto you, although begrudgingly. You were young and unruly, having only been born when your grandfather was already nearing his 60s, and he worried that he would not be able to pass his legacy onto you. Nevertheless, he grew to love you while simultaneously scheming for you. You might have ridden horses all day and played with your swords when you could, but there were moments when you were charming, even—able to best even the most noble of girls in your hometown, and make them envious at your natural grace.

You remained a carefree girl, even at 17, when you had been enrolled at Garreg Mach Monastery. By that age, your grandfather had mellowed out after decades and decades of scheming. He did not wish for you to aspire for a high rank: he only wished that you would be able to live a comfortable life.

Even if it did mean marrying into another family of nobility, and discarding your family name.

It was not an unusual occurrence for a daughter of prestige, but, contrary to what many people thought given your eventual housing situation —or perhaps they were simply unaware— but the first person that you had met at the academy was Felix. Even before you had formally met Claude, head of your house, and heir to your nation.

And, contrary to what most people assumed, Felix was in fact capable of showing a different expression than his signature scowl.

The first time that you had met him, he looked afraid. No one would believe you if you said it to them, but even the great Felix had been afraid of being trampled to death by a horse. 

He had come out of nowhere at the time, when you were on a high from the speed that your horse had. The academy had just come into view when you sped up, so much that even your escorts could not keep up. However, thankfully, with your skills, you were able to sway your horse in time before you had been arrested for murder and potentially avoid tension between two opposing houses. 

The second that you caught yourself, you let your horse settle onto all four before you promptly leapt from your seat and ran towards him. He did not even have a chance to yell at you when you had already started apologizing so profusely that he wondered if you were even capable of saying anything else.

“Are you daft?” Those were the first words that he had said to you, and you froze in surprise. For a moment, you had been worried over the potential death of a handsome guy, but that worry for him immediately dissipated the moment he opened his mouth. 

Behind you, your escorts finally caught up to you, and you finally noticed the uniform that he wore. 

“Are you a student at the Officer’s Academy?”

He narrowed his eyes, but answered proudly, “I am.”

You grinned in response and extended your hand as you introduced yourself.

He was wearing the standard uniform that day, capable of blending in with all of the other students. And although he would often see you with your own set from henceforth, you did not know that the image of you in that outfit of vivid red was the one that he thought suited you best—wild, proud; a lone desert rose against a backdrop of endless sand dunes.

<s>Even Edelgard did not wear red as well as you.</s>

Soon enough, you assimilated to the lifestyle at the academy quite well. 

You made friends easily, although the teachers often thought you to be a handful when you raced ahead of the other students. You were impulsive and uncontrollable, but bold and brave all the same. You dove into spars headfirst and patched up your own wounds with a ridiculously proud smile on your face, even when you lost miserably.

Although you were part of the Golden Deer House, you never forgot your acquaintance with Felix. He was not as friendly as your own housemates, but he never dismissed you either. (And anyway, as much as he hated to admit it, you had a talent for swordsmanship _and_ you were one of the few, if not only, willing to suffer defeat from the same opponent multiple times and still come back for more.)

Therefore, with such a clause in effect, how could Dimitri not notice you?

He had seen you a few times, usually in passing or by chance. He did not think much of you, nor did he know much about you other than the few passing words that he’d hear from his own housemates. To him, you were just another student at the academy until the first time that he actually _saw_ you.

It had been a few weeks after you had initially met Felix, when the Blue Lions were returning from an outing on the training grounds, and the Golden Deers were preparing to leave for a mission in a town nearby. Both groups had coincidentally convened at the front of the school gates, and despite the large amount of people, it was hard not to notice you. You were standing beside Claude at the time, laughing the loudest amongst them. It was an infectious sound and it made everyone else laugh along with you. 

Even under the sun —or perhaps especially because you of the glow of the setting sun— you were radiant. So much that you seemed to eclipse everything else in sight. 

And then, by chance, you looked his way. He was startled when your eyes made contact, and though he knew that it was inappropriate to look at a woman —_girl_, at the time— for too long, he could not look away.

It wasn’t until Dedue said something that he was able to break out of his spell. By the time he had come to, you had turned away, listening to something that one of the other girls from your house was saying to you.

Your groups exchanged conversation for a few minutes before you had to leave; the professors talking to each other; Dimitri and Claude exchanging some words. 

Even you and Felix had conversed briefly. You grinned brightly up at him, and, although was slight, he saw one of Felix’s lips twitch. It was barely a glimpse, and Dimitri wondered if his mind had played tricks on him because when he blinked, the other boy had resumed his ice-cube expression once more.

That evening, when he was preparing for bed and was reflecting on everything that had happened during the training session, he suddenly thought back to when he had seen you. For the first time, he tested the sound of your name upon his lips —a whisper in the dark, with the moonlight glimpsing through his window— and his lips curled. Your name sounded natural on his tongue, and sweet to his ears.

It was not something that he should have pursued given the circumstances, but he found himself curious about you.

Then, one day, he found you by the pier. There was no one around. You were calling for help frantically and he threw all caution to the wind as he raced towards you—only to realize that you were simply having trouble reeling in your catch. Even with his assistance, it was difficult to reel in the fish but you did manage, eventually, and your laughter sounded like hymns in his ears.

Your eyes were full of wonder as the reel arched high into the sky, and landed at a safe distance on the ground a few metres away. You immediately shoved the fishing rod towards Dimitri and ran to inspect the fish, leaving him to —belatedly— realize after that for a few seconds, your hands had been touching.

He caught up to you, and found you crouched down before the fish, miserably flopping around on the pavement.

“…I kind of feel bad for it,” you said. “Do you think we should release it back into the water?”

Then again… You did make a bet with Claude earlier that you could beat his record…

“I’m sorry, little guy,” you said. 

You attempted to pick up the giant creature, but it proved to be yet another struggle for you. It was an amusing sight to see, if it weren’t so tragic, and Dimitri offered his continued assistance.

“Oh! You don’t have to do that for little ol’ me,” you said, “A prince shouldn’t have to do such things like this.” 

“I insist,” he said. “Where do you want to bring it?”

He ended his question with your name, and you reeled in your spot.

“You know my name?” It was a foolish question, really, but you were too surprised to care.

The tips of his ears turned pink and he looked away. “Well, of course. I make it a habit to know as many peers as I can.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He wasn’t _that_ social, not compared to Claude—but he did try to know as many names and faces as he could. 

He knew that it should have been the last thing on his mind —if even then— but some things he could not control. It seemed that ever since he had learnt your name, you had already become a permanent fixture in his life. 

The sun was late in its descent that day, and although Dimitri had never been fond of the heat, for the first time in his life, he hoped that the summer would never end.

But then it did. 

After the destruction of the school, you returned to Leicester. You attempted to see Dimitri before you left, but he was gone before you even had a chance for a proper farewell. It seemed fitting, you later thought. After all, you didn’t really have a proper beginning in the first place.

Five years later, you had become a member of Claude’s troops. After he had become leader of the Alliance, he specifically sought you out as a recruit. He said that he valued your skills as a cavalry; as a swordsman; and as a former peer. (“Come fight a war with me,” he said so grandly, almost two years after you had last seen him. It was hard not to agree. Not when he looked so full of confidence.)

Your feelings for Dimitri had laid dormant during his absence, but you had never forgotten him. But gone were the days of the adolescent prince; replacing him was a man hardened by the vicissitudes of life. Any of the honeyed looks he used to give you were gone with a foreign matter, as if he did not care much for your presence, if at all. The words that left his lips were brutish; rough and impulsive, and not at all like the well-mannered, careful words he used to say.

It was hard to earn his trust again, and you might have gone believing that it was never earned again, but you never did regret what happened that day.

It happened far too quickly for anyone to really notice. Claude was occupied with his own group of enemy opponents; Felix was protecting the rear; and Dimitri was tackling an onslaught of soldiers. He was unguarded, when the king’s side was never supposed to be left open.

Then it came—an attack in his blindspot, from a distance towards his right. The attack that Edelgard sent was meant for him. Everyone knew it, including both you and Dimitri. 

You fell to your knees. Edelgard’s attack had hit you full force. It was a deadly attack, one that plunged through you as if you had been dropped into icy waters, and set your entire body aflame. 

Felix had been the one to notice your sacrifice. You vaguely heard the sound of someone shouting your name, but all of your senses had dulled in that moment. The battlefield around you seemed to blur, too slow for you to really understand what was happening. You only knew that your body both felt heavy and light at the same time.

Time seemed as if it had frozen. Even Byleth had seemed stunned. One moment he looked as if he was concentrating hard to remedy the situation, and then the next, he was dripping sweat, looking pale as a ghost as if he had met death itself. You could not remember ever seeing him so distressed. 

Someone caught you just as the rest of your body began to fall. You felt cold, and you could not stop shivering. You could not even hear what he was saying. You only saw the way his lips moved, the crease on his eyebrows. Was he angry? He looked as if he was.

Maybe he was scolding you for being reckless.

But you did not like him being angry—especially at you.

You raised your hand to his face, and for a moment, felt the warmth of his flesh upon yours. Your hand left a bloody mark on his pallid skin, and you used your thumb to try to wipe away the streaks of red. It did not help, and you apologized shakily.

He shook his head profusely, and you thought that you heard what he was saying this time, but the words were fragmented. Maybe he was telling you to live, if you were truly sorry? 

You smiled up at him. Even in your barely-conscious state, you knew that it was the end for you. Your body… no longer felt anything. You see, your soul had already parted from your body. Your hand slipped from his face and this time, separated from your physical body, you heard his anguished cry of your name. 

Edelgard had retreated promptly after this. Dimitri had gone on an immediate rampage, after the wail of your name, and her soldiers had depleted in number rapidly. Your death had ignited the fury that painted the battlefield red that day. 

He would have chased after them too, if Byleth had not stopped him. 

“You can fix this, can’t you?” It was Dimitri who asked this question, though it sounded more like a plea than anything.

His teacher shook his head, for once, out of magic tricks to pull from his hat. Your death… Although he did not say it aloud, was a replacement for someone else. It was unavoidable. Tampering with time —reverting your death— had the potential to offset a multitude of even more tragedies.

This did nothing to console the tragic prince, and he nearly fought Claude that day as well. While Dimitri had set off to avenge your death, it was Claude who took your body away, back to the barracks. And when Dimitri had finally returned, Claude had declared that he would take you back to Leicester. 

He said it so simply, so calmly, even though his own clothes were soaked in your blood. 

“She was originally a person of my house,” he said. There was a tilt in his voice that bordered on anger—subtle, but anyone who had known Claude as well as Dimitri did would have been able to pick up on the slight nuance. “She had originally been a carefree girl from Leicester. At the very least, she should be buried where she was happiest.”

Before you had met Dimitri; before you had met Claude; before you had met Felix… You had been a happy, carefree girl. 

“I will bring her home, to her father and brother, for a proper burial.”

He was the only person who could take responsibility for you death. He was your Lord; the person whom you had pledged your allegiance to—even if it was to hell.

—

“Claude visited her hometown a while ago,” Byleth says. You close your eyes as the memories come to mind. It is not that you have forgotten the past. No, it is simply just not thought of. “There was a flood. They tried to relocate her grave, but it was already buried, caught beneath the dirt and rain of mother nature.”

Is that why you have felt so cold recently? 

“They could only make a memorial tablet for her, and put her in a mausoleum of heroes.”

You remember the scent of marigold from your hometown. It stayed with you for an entire day, until the wind took it away. You would have forgotten the difference between the ones from Dimitri’s garden, and the ones from your birthplace, if they did not make that offering. The marigold in Dimitri’s garden smell of wind and frost, while yours smell like sand and earth.

“You should not think of her so much,” Byleth cautions. “The country is getting better, day by day. Yet your servants are speaking: rumours are already starting to spread amongst the common folk. The council had already been unhappy that you denied their suggestions to marry and procure an heir. If you continue to indulge in fantasies, then they will find reason to dispose of you. Everything that you have done up until this point will have been for naught. The ghosts of all those you have sought to appease will rise, once more.”

Despite the warnings, Dimitri continues to remain silent, simmering in his thoughts. For the first time, you find it difficult to guess his thoughts. 

“Dimitri,” Byleth starts, walking towards his former student—now King, “Have you not made her a ghost, by thinking of her so much?”

The words hang in the air. It’s suffocating, and you look away. 

“I could not save her,” Dimitri finally says—and you hear the cracks in his voice. You bring a hand to your head now, suddenly feeling a heavy weight inside of your mind. “Don’t you know? She died for me!”

He has thought about that day many times, has replayed it inside of his head too many times to forget. That attack was meant for him; Edelgard had always meant to kill him, once it became true that they could no longer stand on the same paths. He swore to never let anyone die in his place again and yet—and yet you did. 

The tremors in his voice are painful to hear, and you do not want to hear such sorrow. Your hands fall over your ears. Your feet start to back away, until they hit a wall in the corner of the room.

<s>You… have become a shadow, in this cold room, in this foreign palace.</s>

“I… had been caught up in my path of vengeance… I could not save her. I could not save Rodrigue. I could not save Edelgard.”

_My King… Don’t you know? We have never expected you to save us. Our lives… were our lives, and our deaths were ours alone._

_If I could give you my life all over again… I would surely do it again. _

“She… said she loved me,” he confesses, “…And I did not answer.”

The day before the confrontation with Edelgard, you had found Dimitri in the dark, when he could not sleep. He sat upon a hill, staring up at the night sky full of stars. You reminisced about your fleeting months together, the future to come—and then, had foolishly kissed him.

“_I love you, Dimitri._”

Seconds had gone by, then minutes. He did not answer, and you did not press him for a response. 

You… truthfully, did not have any hope to begin with. 

It was already enough that you could stay by his side. 

At the time, he did not know that it would be the last time that he would hear his name from your lips.

“_My King… I had only wanted you to know... you were loved,_” but your whispers go unheard. You have lost your voice long ago, to all of the words unspoken in Dimitri’s mind. All of the scenarios he has thought of, replayed over and over inside of his head—some rewritten, some replaced, some simply discarded. He has blurred the lines between fact and fiction and transferred his madness unto you.

Your heart hurts, evermore.

“She is already dead,” Byleth reminds. “Do not forsake the reason why she died.”

The room goes silent. 

Then, without warning, Dimitri rises. He does not say anything as he leaves the room, and Byleth has enough tact not to go after him.

For the first time, you do not follow after him, when he runs away.

And then… Byleth calls your name. 

You turn to him, wide-eyed and—_hopeful_. Does he know that you are here? Truly? 

“Forgive me,” he says, and you realize that he is speaking in belief that you might be here to hear his pleas. “I hope that you do not hate me for what I have done.”

You smile sadly.

Hate him?

No. You cannot.

You stand only a foot away from him now. If he turns his head, he might be able to see you if you were still flesh and human.

But you are not, and all that he would see is empty space. 

“_Do you know, teacher?_” you mutter, “_Once you die… The things like love and hate… Pain and joy… are just that._”

You are already dead, are you not? What use is it to bear any grudges? You… will only love, for as long as Dimitri does. 

And when he forgets you, you will disappear. Such is the law of life and death.

“I hope that one day, you can find your peace,” Byleth says.

You wish you could. 

You really, really wish you could.

But it seems that even in death, you cannot escape the scent of marigold. **[1]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[1]** Marigold symbolizes many things such as lions, wealth, death/grief/sorrow. It can symbolize a love charm and also jealousy/envy, and passion.
> 
> Re: Felix and the Reader, take that as you will. I initially did not plan to go in depth with their relationship, but it was so easy to write for them. Mainly I wanted there to be a reason why Felix had gone off on Dimitri the way he did in the previous chapter, and I initially planned it to be a strictly platonic thing but… Hands... Have a mind of its own, I guess. ;A;
> 
> Would love to hear any feedback/constructive criticism if any. :)


	5. Avarice

* * *

_It’s best to endure, best not to meet, and best not to miss you_  
_Only this way, I will not fall for you.  
And when the flowers fall,  
Our memories will disappear, just as well._

**V.**

* * *

He thinks of you less and less, as the days go on. He’s made a conscious decision not to call your name or to even seek you out during the day, but when night falls, he always dreams of you.

Not that you feel slighted. All that matters is that the rumours have quelled—and that Dimitri still lives.

Nevertheless, you continue to follow him during the day, silently, at a safe enough distance. During the night, you watch over him, as always, and hope to keep the ghosts and nightmares at bay. For a while, it works. You find compromise in your situation until one night, early into the winter, long after the marigolds have already wilted and passed, he calls your name.

You stay, silent. It must be a mistake. His resolve cannot waver that easily. _Your_ own resolve cannot break that easily, either.

He’s on his third glass of wine when he allows himself to test your name upon his lips, but when you do not respond, he goes silent as well. You fight to stop yourself from approaching him. He has always been a controller drinker, usually only having a glass or two of ale during times of celebration. But wine is stronger, and the more that he drinks, the quicker his glass empties.

He simmers in his thoughts, alone except for yourself accompanying him in his inebriation. You, on one end of the room, hidden by the shadows; and Dimitri, under the gaze of the moonlight, in the opposite.

You watch as he uncorks the second bottle and forgoes using his glass now. He drinks straight from the mouth of the bottle, chugging the contents like a man who has been deprived of hydration. Slips of wine trickle from the corner of his mouth and he finally releases, wiping away the mess with the back of his hand. 

He exhales—shakily—sounding like a gasp for reprieve. He stills, and you turn away with your eyes closed. 

He says your name, again. 

You stay silent, _again_.

Then—once more. 

This time, once he starts, he does not stop. It doesn’t seem like he wants to, really. Even when he is half-drunk, your name is crisp upon his yearning tongue. Your name is a mantra upon his lips, a prayer of requiem. He’s drunk; a mixture of wine and marigold. 

“I know that you are here,” he says. “Why won’t you say anything?”

What can you say? Is there a point? What can it change, in the end? It is better for you to not say anything at all.

“Do you know?” he continues, even though you have not responded. “—Just how much my heart yearns for you?” 

Of course you know. How can you not? With the way that he dreams fervently of you; the way that he reveres you. How many lives have you taken and yet he still calls you a saint? 

He has immortalized you within his heart. His love for you teeters on the edge of existence and snowballs with infinity. 

Even when others have forgotten you, Dimitri has not. In the beginning, you would have fresh flowers at your tomb every week, but now, your family only visits on a singular day throughout the year. Though it cannot be helped—your brother had gotten married and is already expecting his second child. Even your father and his, who had both mourned your death sorrowfully have become placated by the new additions to your family.

They have all moved on, but Dimitri still clings onto you like a man in denial.

So how could you not know his heart?

“Are you angry with me?” he laughs, sardonic and mournful. His voice lowers, barely a whisper; you think that you can hear another shaky inhale of his breath. “_I_ am.” 

Resentment laces his voice and dangles in the pits his heart. He’s angry at you for dying that day; angry at himself for all of the things he did not do and did not say.

But you do not regret. _Still_ do not regret. You would do it, willingly, over and over again, as long as it means his survival. 

“You are selfish,” he accuses. “For leaving so soon, before we could even have a proper beginning.”

You were the one who said you loved him, so how could you go away before he could reciprocate?

You shake your head. You did have a beginning. But all beginnings must have an end. The day that you met; the day that you died; had been simply the start of the end. 

You step out of the shadows. “Why don’t you let me go?”

“Why do you stay?” he returns your question with one of his own, without skipping a beat. You instantly realize that he’s asked this question to himself, similar to the way that you have asked yours to yourself.

You have pondered over this for so long now. In truth, you would like to excuse your overextended stay with Dimitri’s obsession over you. Lovers often swear only until death they shall part, but you have already gone. Is it not true that he is the one keeping you here? Restless, in this cold world? 

Or maybe you are to share the blame as well. Perhaps it is his very attachment to you that makes you feel as if you still have a home, even after dying. Perhaps it is his endless love and adoration for you that makes you feel as though you can still attain a happily-ever-after death. 

His heart is your graveyard, but, over time, it has also become the place where you call home.

Dimitri might have started this self-delusional hoping, but you have also learnt that same delusional way of thinking.

“Tell me!” he roars.

The answer is simple, actually.

You stay, because you are in love with him. 

You struggle to voice your answer. 

Dimitri’s grief is full of regret for all of the things that he did not do and all of the words he could not say. His grief is full of love—unsurmountable in how far his affections go for you, having never had the change to fully bloom, properly. 

But time does not allow you to regret. Would you be able to change yesterday based on the feelings of regret?

No, you cannot.

“Why don’t you try?” To forget? When so many others have already forgotten… He is the only one stubbornly clinging onto you.

His gaze flares. He finally turns to you. Anger consumes his only visible eye, but the grimace upon his lips contains the opposite.

“Try?” he asks, his voice on the precipice of anger and—hysteria. As if he cannot even comprehend the notion. His innocence is at its highest peak altruism and his pleas dance upon mercy. “Tell me, how should I try to forget you?”

He should eat well, even if he can no longer taste.  
He should rest, when the burden becomes too much for his body.  
He should love, even when his heart is broken.

“You should marry.” You wonder how he would look upon his wedding day—handsome, surely, and if you had the luxury, you might have worn a gown of white beside him. You’ve always been fond of a-line cuts; perhaps something of satin and lace. You would hold a bouquet of babies breath and roses just to satiate the romantic within. But that dream is a distant memory, and is only that—just a dream. “As par the council’s wishes…” He should have the two —no, three— children that you could not. 

Like all of the others who had once known you, Dimitri should fill the void of your absence. 

“Would you really be willing to let me marry someone that isn’t you?” 

You look away. No, you are not willing. But what can you do?

“I only want for you to live well.”

He laughs, and finally rises. Makes his way towards you, and you instinctively move back and purposefully avoid his vicious gaze.

He traps you against a corner by the windows; moonlight cutting through the curtains, highlighting his face on one side, and hiding the other.

You swallow hard and close your eyes.

“You said that you loved me,” he hisses, and then his voice falters. The breath that glimpses your skin is cold. For the first time, Dimitri feels cold to you. No longer radiating warmth. “Why?”

“There is no why,” you reply, still with your eyes close. “How many people have fallen in love without control over their heart, simply just because?”

If affection could be put so simply into words, could be explained so easily, then why would scholars and philosophers lament in agony over the pain that trails in its wake? 

There are a multitude of reasons why you love Dimitri. To speak of them without a clear construct would only bring shame to your bearings. There is no why, for you simply fall in love with him multiple times. Constantly, over and over again; compounding every single day that you continue to exist.

Beyond that, even.

“No,” he shakes his head. His voice is calm, steadier, glimpses of his sobriety returning to light. “Why did you tell me?”

You open your eyes this time, as realization hits you full force.

The burden of being loved, but being able to express it… His love is a grace, and yours is malice.

You are cruel. You are wicked. You are devious. 

Selfish, like he had claimed, for simultaneously giving him love, given him hope, only to take it all away from him at once.

“Di—” 

He raises a hand, brings it to your face that is no longer flesh and bones. It is cold, a space in your silhouette that deceives. He can see you; he can hear you; but unlike yourself who is still capable of feeling warmth from his touch, Dimitri only feels the cold of your existence.

You wonder if it is too late to regret.

You had only wanted him to know that he was deserving of love, capable of receiving it as he was regardless of his insecurities and of the perceptions that others might have had of him. You loved him in spite of all of his flaws; his cruelty; his monsters; his shallow, shell-like existence. 

You never meant to be cruel.

“Live well?” he laughs now, but it is broken, morphing into a gasp of a plea upon his trembling lips. “How can I live well without you by my side?”

“My King…” You close your eyes. Such a question… Isn’t the answer obvious? “I am already dead, and you are still alive.”

Isn’t that already well enough? 

“I did not ask you to save me that day.” Accusing. Angry. 

His words through gritted teeth. 

You did not mean it that way.

“My King—“

“Leave!” he roars, already having distanced himself from you.

“My King—“

His back is turned to you. For a moment, a glimpse of his tall, study back amongst the battlefield flashes in your mind. 

He had looked lonely then, and he still looks lonely now.

You’re almost tempted to reach out to him, to wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face in his sturdy back; to apologize to him for all of the pain that you have brought unto him…

Your fingers crawl up his sides, towards his stomach, and lays rest upon his chest where his heart beats steadily. 

“Please,” you whisper, “_Please_, live well.”

Your touch is fleeting, there one second, and gone the next.

It’s silent, in the room.

When he opens his eyes, there are no more shadows. He does not feel the frost upon his back anymore, and for the first time in years, Dimitri finds himself completely alone in the dark. 

It’s more daunting than he remembers.


	6. The Offering to Love

* * *

_You stand, on one end, thousands and thousands of miles away_  
_I, on the other  
Hoping to close that distance between us  
Step by step, day by day, heartbeat by heartbeat._

**VI. **

* * *

Her name is Sharon Broussard, and she is King Dimitri’s one and only lawfully wedded wife. Textbooks will write that she is the fourth daughter of Lord Simon Broussard, nouveau aristocracy due to his assistance to the King during the war. They will write that he assisted them greatly, but in reality, he had only provided provisions to the King’s army in their time of need. 

And, although she is his one and only wife, she is not named Queen, and the scholars will speculate that this is because she does not provide any blood heirs.

—

It was not by chance that Sharon and Dimitri met. It was during a memorial service for those who perished during the war that they did.

After all this time, her father was still only a lesser noble, with no more notable achievements to his name. But the King had not forgotten his graces during his time of need, and still came over to their table to pay respects. It was then that Sharon met his eyes, but she did not dare to look for too long, and immediately glanced down to her feet.

“…my daughter Janice. She has always admired you, King Dimitri.”

Her fingers curled beneath the table. She knew that her father had ideas to wed her eldest sister off to the King, and to be fair, Janice was beautiful, but Sharon was even more beautiful. But what woman did not admire the noble and brave King? What man did not have intentions for their daughters to become Queen?

For the first time, Sharon delighted in the very fact. It was guaranteed that King Dimitri would have admirers aplenty — more prestigious, more noble, more beautiful than either of them. He had many suitors, and if his wife could not be Sharon, then they would certainly not be Janice either.

Much to her surprise, some days later, the King would invite not her older sister, but Sharon herself, to the palace, chaperoned by her lady-in-waiting. 

She knew that her father was surprised as well, but she did not care. He had only brought her along to hopefully catch the eye of some other lesser noble if possible, but she had caught the eye of King Dimitri even when her sister could not. 

As for their meeting in the palace, she had heard that there were many gardens inside the palace, specifically one full of marigold. It resided towards the north of the palace, directly in view of where the King’s bedroom was.

The one he took her to was full of flowers and trees native to Faerghus; begonias of various colours and pear blossom trees that littered the paths with its white petals, like snow amidst late summer. It was a beautiful sight, but she had always seen begonias and pear blossoms her entire life… 

They did not speak much. King Dimitri was a man of little words, she realized, but he was careful with his words and polite enough. He did not seem to disdain her despite her lesser upbringing, and she thought that this was a good sign.

Then, the engagement came just as quickly, and within a few short months, she was married to King Dimitri. The wedding was grand, an event that was every bit and prestigious befitting of royalty. 

But the dress was not what she wanted. She had always dreamed of something more modern, something that showed off her body a little bit more with a sweetheart neckline. Instead, she got a mid-sleeved a-line dress with a round neckline, and a skirt that trailed many feet behind her. 

It was more traditional than she liked, but she convinced herself that he was only following tradition. Royals had protocol to follow, after all.

The menu for their dinner had traditional dishes native to Faerghus. That was fine. It was what she was used to. But their cake—it was beautiful. It was a safe choice, surely: vanilla flavoured, and it tasted wonderfully. 

However, she later learned that it was made by chefs from Leicester. Supposedly, it was a gift from King Claude of Almyra. He had personally instructed his chefs to make the cake as one of his wedding gifts. She wrote him a heartfelt thank you card, but his own response was curt and formal. 

But, curiously enough, he said, “It was what Dimitri originally wanted.” She did not quite understand, but she did not ask any further, either.

As for the rings? 

The engagement band was simple. It was a gold, oval-cut sapphire ring with a pave setting. It was not underwhelming, but it was not overwhelming either. Although she would have rather preferred a diamond herself, she supposed that the sapphire was fitting. It was, after all, the colours of the Blaiddyd house. 

The wedding band was even simpler. It was a plain gold band, as if it was there just to show that they were married. 

Nevertheless, she told herself that these things were inconsequential. She was to be Queen of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. There was no woman to be more grander, no more prestigious, no more revered than herself.

And then…

After all of their wedding duties had been performed, she waited an entire evening and then some for her husband to finally come to their room so that they could consummate their vows…

The door creaked open.

On the night of her wedding, her husband had not even crossed the threshold of his room. She saw his foot hover in the air, but his hand remained on the doorknob. 

It was hard to see with the veil still over her head, but she could not make out his expression. She only saw that he promptly turned around and did not return for the entire night. 

The next morning, she was disturbed by the maids who had come to prepare her breakfast. They started to change the sheets immediately, in front of her while she ate—and her eyes burned red until she realized that her belongings were not in the room.

“Where are my items?” she asked.

“Millady,” a servant said—“Your things are in your room, in the south wing.”

She frowned. “The King’s room is right here, is it not?”

“It was the King who instructed us to move your things there.”

She could not understand why he treated her that way. He was the one who proposed marriage, was he not? So why…?

But she knew that she could not yell at the King, and she only threw a hateful glare to the servant who had addressed her. “It is not “milady,” she reminded. “I am your Queen, your highness.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

For months after, she tried to get closer to her husband. 

In the beginning, he would even spare her a glance every now and then, but the more that they interacted, the less he looked at her. Over time, it was as if he had forgotten her entirely. It was easy enough to do so anyway. He remained in the northern wing of the palace, while she had been relocated to the furthest side opposite of him. 

By the time spring arrived, she had almost given up hope on them. It was fine, you see. Whether her husband loved her or not, she was still his wife. They would share their entire lives together, and there was plenty of time to make him love her.

Her spirits were lifted when the flowers started to bloom. She spent many days wandering around the palace gardens, but the one she saved for last was the northern garden. 

When she mentioned going there one day, the servants seemed hesitant. But she ignored their uncertainty. She was the King’s wife, was she not? Who dared to stop her?

She had always been curious about the foreign marigolds. They said that it had been carefully cultivated and groomed every season. The fields were vast and seemingly endless, an entire vision of gold. 

It was by coincidence that she encountered the King that day, as he took a leisurely stroll around the garden. They made eye contact, but it was only for a brief moment. Behind her, she thought that the servants seemed nervous, but King Dimitri had simply dismissed them before he took it upon himself to personally escort her around the garden.

She was happy. They had been married for a few months already, but she could count the amount of times she had seen her husband with both hands. 

“Were you bored?” he asked her.

“No,” she lied. “The palace has much to do, _my King_.”

He glanced over at her for some curious reason. It was a long stare, and she almost caved under his gaze. Finally, she had enough, and she turned away.

“Might I ask something, my King?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do you cherish these marigolds so much?” It was a bold question. They said that the King loved this garden specifically, though he never seemed the type to wax poetic in all of the time that she had known him…

“They were for a friend,” he said. She was surprised. She hadn’t expected him to actually reply honestly. She thought he would explain more, but he did not, and so she did not press the issue any further. 

He looked away, and they were only halfway through the field when she started to feel her legs burn. It was true, she thought. The north garden was much larger than any of the others. The scent of marigold was starting to irritate her nose, too, and she sneezed involuntarily. 

He took this as a sign that she was bored, and so he started to turn around to lead her back towards the palace.

But before they finished, he asked for her opinion. “Now that you have seen the garden, what do you think?”

She hesitated to respond. Actually, she did not care for the flowers. They weren’t as beautiful as roses, and they didn’t smell as nice as the plum blossoms in winter. The endless gold was ostentatious, and inelegant in her opinion. She much preferred softer hues. 

But she could not say this to the King who famously adored the flower, and so she responded, “Marigolds are a unique flower. Its scent lingers enough to intoxicate, and the gold is an auspicious colour. They could be considered noble and prestigious, and they often say that the flower is representative of a lion. It is a fitting flower for a King, in my opinion.”

Dimitri hummed, but did not say anything more. For the rest of the walk, he did not even glance at her.

At a later date, when she tried to enter the garden again, she was stopped by the servants. 

“This is the King’s private garden,” they said. “My apologies, your Highness. But even the King himself said that you were not allowed to enter without his permission.”

—

After a while, Sharon sought Byleth out for advice pertaining her marriage. However, the Archbishop was not very useful. It was clear that he still had reservations around her, and no matter how hard she pressed for advice —anything, really— he was tight-lipped. 

He only told her that she should not focus on obtaining Dimitri’s heart. “It will be an impossible endeavour,” he had told her bluntly, though she would later learn that this was his sympathy towards her. 

She would have banished Byleth entirely if she did not remember that he was an important and vital person to not only the Kingdom, but to the entire continent. 

With no one else to go to, she resorted to asking the servants, bribing them for anything she could ascertain.

They said he often had nightmares. In his sleep, he would call for a single name. When she asked them who this person was, they shook their head. There was not a person in the entire palace who had your name.

Eventually, she found a letter with your name on it. She knew that she should not have looked into the King’s possessions, but she was literally going mad. She could accept not being loved; she accept being ignored. But she could not accept not knowing why.

The letter was sealed, and Sharon cursed the fact. She thought to open it anyway and to reseal it later, but the second that she grabbed the letter opener, she felt a cold shiver run up her back. She immediately placed the letter back where she found it and escaped before anyone could notice.

In her desperation, she finally wrote a letter to her father asking for his assistance. She did not receive a response, but shortly thereafter, her sister had come to visit her.

The ring on her hand was beautiful—eye catching and tastefully crafted. Sharon had to force herself to look away.

“Father does not know the person you mentioned,” she said. “But, he worried that you were getting distracted. We both agreed that you should focus on being a good monarch. Forget anything else about the King. As long as he does not disdain you, then that should be enough.”

It was the logical way to live, Sharon knew, but how was she to tell her sister that even as the most glorious woman in the entire Kingdom, she still felt like she was walking on eggshells? She thought to dismiss her older sister because she did not want to hear such crude words, but, perhaps sympathizing, Janice sent her an apologetic look. 

“…They say that you look like her.”

“What?”

The girl that she had inquired her father about: Sharon looked like you. 

At the wedding, Janice was seated with a woman whose Lord attended school with the King. The wife did as well, although she was two years younger than both the King and yourself and was not personally acquainted with either of you. But her Lord was friends with the King, and by extension, had known who you were.

You were from the Golden Deer House, from Leicester. Initially had no reason to be in contact with King Dimitri, but the both of you had somehow met and bonded quite well during your studies. During the war, they said you died to protect him, and that he killed hundreds of lives from the Adrestian Empire as an offering for you. 

Imagine how surprised the Lady and Lord were when they saw you upon _her_ wedding day. The resemblance was uncanny: Sharon looked like the girl that the King loved. 

“I don’t believe it,” she said, dismissively. How could such a coincidence happen? Ever since she was born, everyone called her beautiful. The saints and priests had said she was blessed with a harmonious physiognomy, and that she was destined to have her name written into the annals of history. She refused to believe that she was an imitation of someone else.

“…I thought that you might not.” Janice said. “I did not either, until I asked the Lady if I could see a picture…”

They said that she looked like you, but Sharon did not agree. Her eyes were larger, her nose more sculpted. Her lips were fuller and her face was rounder. She could not be compared to you, whose beauty was so much different than hers! Anyone could see it!

<s>When she calmed, and her mind had cleared, she had to admit that even at first glance, the both of you looked similar… But that was only upon first glance. Afterwards, it was clear of the differences between you two. Perhaps not only in looks, but in personality too.</s>

That evening, after her sister left, Sharon had finally searched for the letter the King wrote for you. In her madness, she ripped the envelope open without any thought to the repercussions. She just needed to confirm for herself—

It was indeed a love letter, but one that also begged for forgiveness.

The King had loved you. So much that he wanted to join you even in the afterlife…

“…would the Angels forgive me if I joined you?”

If she calculated properly, then Sharon was already older than you when you had died. 

At the thought of death, her hands shook. She could not imagine dying for someone else, even if it was someone that she loved. Emperor Edelgard was known to be a vicious fighter, and you had died by her axe… 

You must have died painfully. 

They said that he dreamt of you every night. Sharon would not know because she had never once shared a bed with him, but she believed the stories. She had hated you even before she knew you because she could not accept a third party, but she realized that night that _she_ had been the third person all along. 

Sharon laughed that day—horrendously, unbefitting of a queen. She laughed so hard that even her perfect makeup began to falter. Her stomach hurt and her throat became sore, and she laughed until the sounds turned into sobs, and then into wails of regret. 

—

Dimitri adopted two children. 

After it became apparent that he would not produce any biological heirs, the council provided him a list of suitable candidates.

He ended up adopting two children out of the various orphanages that he patronized. 

The first was a boy—designated to be heir to the throne. He had blond hair and blue eyes, similar to Dimitri himself. He was trained in the ways of politics and chivalry, and of strategy and warfare. Dimitri personally gave him dancing lessons, and even though they were not related by blood, the both of them were close as such.

Amidst all of this, Dimitri taught his son forgiveness, and appreciation. 

Two years later, he adopted another child. This time, it was a girl, two and a half years younger than his son. Dimitri doted on her and spoiled her just a little bit more than his son. He taught her how to ride and how to sword fight, and often took her to the lake on the outskirts of the capital to fish—even during the winter. Unlike his son, Dimitri taught his daughter to be a little bit more selfish, a little bit more guarded with her heart—a little less reckless, and a little bit more cautious. 

He considered adopting a third child, but he always fell short of doing so. The King loved children, but his reasoning for not adopting a third child was simple. He just could not decide if it were to be a boy or girl, and how he should have raised them.

—

“Byleth.”

They are older now. Decades have already passed since the war ended. Prosperity has reigned over not only Faerghus, but also Fodlan, all this time. They have attained peace, finally.

Many of their friends and former peers have settled down and started their own families as well. In fact, even Claude had settled down, eventually, after he travelled the world. He married a girl he knew from his childhood. Recently, he had even abdicated the throne to one of his children who had turned of age. After he did so, he settled in a border village where he set up a school of his own. Scholars came to and from all over the entire continent for his teachings and advice, although the former King was highly selective on whom he taught. 

It came as a shock to everyone, but it was something that seemed fitting of Claude. 

He wrote that he was happy and well, and that Dimitri should visit whenever he had the time.

It sounded like a nice adventure, but Dimitri was no longer young, and he did not have the luxury to do as he wanted anymore. Part of him was envious of his former schoolmate, but for the most part, he was also happy for Claude. 

“Yes, your Highness?”

“Would you say that I have lived well?”

Although Dimitri has experienced a lot of turmoil in his early life, these past few decades have been peaceful. It could be considered that for more than half of his life, Dimitri has lived well.

At this response, Dimitri smiles, but it is not in tone with his following words that are sadder, thoughtful. “Byleth, do you know?” He has stopped drinking ever since that day, never even took a sip again even during times of celebration, but still, it feels as if he is drunk every day. “…I did not know that I loved her until she was already gone.”

While he had affections for you during his adolescence, those feelings were only a fraction of a fraction in comparison to the hatred he had for those who wronged him. They were buried and crushed beneath his vengeance. Even after you had reunited five years later, he had already steeled his heart and refused to breathe life into his feelings.

It was simply a luxury that he did not have, you see, and those feelings —whatever they were— had laid dormant in his heart. He could not nurture them or even think of them.

And then you said those three affectionate words to him that day, and he did not know how to respond. Not because he was afraid to say them because of the unknown future, but because he simply did not know how too. Was love even something he could commit to? Something he could afford? 

…At the time, he thought he was a lost cause.

Then you died, and he felt his heart stir. It was painful to witness your sacrifice for him. 

He thought of you every second of every day since. Before that, even. It was not something that he could deny any longer and he wished that fate had not been so cruel, and that it had permitted him perchance to love at the right time and with the right person. 

“…I think that it is already enough that you loved, no matter how little.” Byleth says, ever-wise and ever calm.

—

You stay, even when all of the other spirits have departed, one by one, until you are the very last to remain.

They have all found their peace in offerings made by Dimitri. 

He makes none for you. 

He might not have gotten drunk, and he might not call your name anymore, but his grasp upon your soul is still tightly held as ever.

Tonight, you ruefully appear before him.

“You’ve finally shown,” he says, smiling tiredly. “I had thought that you would remain angry until all of eternity.”

“…You have not called for me, my King,” you reason. He laughs, but you think that he is cruel. He is still too young. He’s supposed to wait until his hair is salt and pepper… Is this how he must have felt that day, when you died in his arms? You look away. “I was not angry.” 

“Truly?” Happiness coats his tone. You don’t know if he has ever been this delighted before.

“Truly,” you reply, causing him to break out into a brilliant smile.

“Byleth seems to think that I have lived well,” he tells you, but it is something that you already know. “But do you know? I have not lived a day well since you have gone…”

You stay silent. Not because you don’t have anything to say, but because you don’t think you can trust yourself to hold a steady voice.

He calls your name, his lone eye searching for your presence. You walk closer to where he lies on his bed and place a hand atop of his.

“…Do you resent me? For being unable to let you go?”

You shake your head. Never. You are also at fault, you have come to realize. You have been unable to let him go as well…

“…You said that you loved me,” he reminds. “…Do you still mean it?”

“I do,” you whisper in response, shakily and broken.

He only continues to smile. “Good. I’m… I’m glad.” _Thank you._ “I’m sorry… That I could not do better for you.”

He could not let you go, even when he wanted to. He could not love properly, even when you asked him to. 

“…Do you think our children resemble us?” he asks.

You bring a hand to your mouth, and clench down hard on your teeth. They are not yours, they could never resemble either you nor Dimitri. But he has raised them perfectly, and you would be proud to call them your own if you were still alive. <s>Would they be willing to call you their mother?</s>

“…Please don’t cry.” He shifts from his spot on the bed, and brings a hand to wipe the tears on your cheeks. You lean into his touch, longing for the warmth that he still radiates even after all this time.

“Dimitri,” you start. He grins widely this time, boyish and reminiscent to his youth. It has been a long time since he has heard his name in your voice. “…You’ve done enough.”

It’s time he started living for himself, you want to tell him. But the words get caught in your voice. You know that it is a useless sentiment. After all…

He calls your name again, sweetly and reverent. “In our next lives… If the Gods will permit us reincarnation… Then can we meet again?” _And love—properly?_

“Of course,” you assure. 

“Let’s make it a promise then… To find each other in our next life…”

“I promise you, Dimitri… Always.”

“…I love you.” You help him to lie back down, and he takes the opportunity to bring a hand to the back of your head, where his lips meet yours for a brief kiss. “…I have always loved you.”

You rest your head upon his chest, and nod your head. You whisper the words back to him, and his heart beats calmly, steadily, slowly… _silently_. You do not see, but you suspect that he has a smile on his lips. You hope that he does.

When you close your eyes, a strange tranquility overcomes you. You do not feel anything; not the sorrow, nor the grief. You do not feel the coldness of death, either. You are calm and peaceful, and you feel a welcoming warmth around you. 

You do not see the darkness of the room nor the uncertainty of the future. Instead, you see a glimpse of that summer-autumn day where a boy with gem-coloured eyes looked at you and smiled sweetly, and afflicted your heart in ways you hadn’t known possible. It was where it all began, after all. It was the beginning of a lifetime together.

“Yes, my love… Let’s meet again.”

You will follow him wherever it is, as long as he shall wish it so.

_ **FIN.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>have i made you guys cry? (:</s>   
<s>i definitely made myself. </s>
> 
> thank you to everyone who has read this story and i hope that you guys enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it. for any of those curious, i have remade a tumblr recently so i’ll be available there if anyone wants news on wips/upcoming projects or even just to say hello. :) 
> 
> @yearning-moon


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